will the blog live on?

now that the chairman can blog from home, will the blog's subtle genius (so subtle in fact, that it has yet to be detected) remain? or will the chairman be this century's joseph heller?

and when can you blog. is it ok to blog after sex? what about after an argument? can fielding still get his glove on the ball in such an environment? a lot is on the line, and yet, nothing is on the line, except the line. that was not much of a line, so if you want to drop me a line to say you are feeling fine, that would be fine.

see, this is what worries me. the rambling, rose. i am afraid i will be left out in the cole if such lines continue.

idea for a story...a man wakes up and finds that he is in his own bedroom and his girlfriend is next to him. he gets up, brushes his teeth, goes to work.

ah, the blog. what became of it? it used to mean something. it had direction. once it told me to take a left on commonwealth ave. it was right. hey, i'm being straight with you. i could have been tony naro, but i decided not to be. decide is 45 degrees. outside it is 47 degrees.

so, it looks like the end. i can feel it. wait a second, that's my penis. my fault. this blog, where did it go? i can see the end, and unfortunately, it doesn't have much shape. it is flat, not round. the church was right after all. the world is flat. it ain't happening. and neither is this sorry blog. cyborg used to have it. his words used to have punch, power. now, he is just a punk. he became a part of the system. computer at home, cable tv, a steady pay check. no more does he fight himself on the train. (by the way, it was a draw, and a pretty picture at that.) he has taken the bus to nowhere.

everything becomes a part of the system. i want to cry naomi wolf, for it was she who said that the blog is our strongest advantage, our most important weapon. i only wish i liked heroin as much as she does. so, don't cry wolf, and don't cry for me argentina. rather, get out on the highway, and step on it, wolf, before francis sees you, and gets blue. on that note, i will take an ike, perhaps to quebec, for i'm a dreamer, montreal?

i stand on guard for thee.

oh, blog, you will be ruined. you will be overexposed. you will die. and yet, you will live. how ironic. how i, ron, rick. well i must pack my bags and head for the trane, for it is time for me to vengco. as always, i will ron away from my problems. i will skirt the issue. you can dress it up anyway you like, but the naked truth remains. on the realberg, my shit is sick. call me the son of sick realberg, the edwin starr of david. war? it ain't berry good, johnny. it's time we make a mclean break from it and go back to the woods. america, put your cannonballs down. take the trane, support your local art farmers and taylors. we need to be like monks. away with living like dukes and counts. if you want to get a woody, fine, but this obsession with sex must go. we need to be humble, even if it means that we hum bull. it's ok if you don't know the tune.

at least acknowledge the music that is all around you. don't just stitt around. get up, and clap your hands. for life is not all black and white, but rather, much of it is wardell gray. see the subtlety. embrace it, my sweet, embraceable you. well, it wasn't a great line, but you gershwin some, and you lose some. if i had a kern for every bad pun, i'd be a rich manne, buddy. well, ring my bell son, cause i'm done. i've taken it to the max, and while it may not be high art, it beats a lot of stuff.

and now, the end is near, and so i face the final curtain.

well, they beat blinds.